Everyone Wants To Be Us
by casuallyfanfiction
Summary: [The Devil Wears Prada] A little insight into the thoughts of Miranda Priestly when Andrea leaves her in Paris.


Disclaimer: As much as I'd love to, I don't own The Devil Wears Prada.

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"Everyone wants to be us."

I say it quickly. Too quickly. I glance hastily at her reaction before I prepare to get out of the car. She doesn't buy it.

Do I?

As the door opens, my smile is fixed in place for the crowds of photographers all wanting a piece of me. My name is called from every angle and for a second, I don't know why I doubt myself. But a shiver runs down my spine as the photographers fight like animals to get close to me and the bodyguards strain to push them off. I turn to see if Andrea has made it out of the car yet…but she's not there.

I am alone.

A figure walks away from the car I've just left, her head held high and, although I can't see it, a smile on her face.

Where is she going?

I already know the answer but I don't want to admit it. She's giving up. She's leaving the clothes, the parties, her job…and me.

She doesn't look back. If she did, what would I do? I turn back quickly and continue up the stairs, alone. My head feels light and I glare at the men standing in my way who retreat and give me room. I whip my phone out and dial Andrea's number. This is not the end.

No answer.

I won't accept this. She can't leave me, she can't. Andrea was different from the other girls, I could feel it. Her determination and willingness to succeed made me see myself in her. I knew she understood why I act the way I do, why I demand so much from my staff.

They all hate me. I know they do. Maybe all except Nigel. But after my ruthless actions to save my job, will he still feel the same? Only Andy understood. She pitied me desperately for it, but she understood.

Without my job, what am I?

A mother? Hardly. I love the twins with all my heart but it never seems to be enough. When I get home after work, they're in bed and I'm gone long before they wake up. Cara is more of a mother to them than I am.

A wife? Not anymore. Another Mr Priestly gone because he grew tired of always coming second to Runway. Sick of being known as 'Miranda Priestly's husband'. I really thought this one would work…but I was proved wrong. Again. Yes, Andrea knew why I did what I did. Without Runway I am nothing.

"Ms Priestly, it's such an honour to meet you…"

A member of staff comes gushing up to me and I feel physically sick at her words and compliments. I ignore her and stride over to the bathroom, leaving my entourage chatting to her behind me. At least my actions won't cause alarm. They know how I am.

I look hard into the mirror and watch as my eyes fill with salty tears. I refuse to let them fall, but they do not obey me, unlike everyone else, and fall shamelessly down my face. I remember back to the last time I cried. Andrea had found me in my hotel room in Paris after Steven announced he couldn't cope any longer. Had it been anyone else, I would have told them to leave, fired them on the spot, done anything to stop them from seeing me vulnerable. But not with Andrea. I found myself allowing her to stay and letting her see me in my raw state. She understood.

And that is why she left. I thought because she understood me, she would stay. But instead, it made her more determined to go. She saw what my job has done to me and could see it start happening to her. I sigh as I think what she could have become at Runway. But she knows the score, she knows what she would have to give up and forfeit.

She managed to escape.

"Ms Priestly?"

The voice from outside awakens me. I wipe my eyes roughly and re-apply the make-up that my tears have damaged. The show must go on, as they say. I grab my phone and ring Emily as I leave the bathroom, marching past anyone standing in my way. The moment is over and I have work to do. The search for a new assistant must begin immediately. One shouldn't be hard to find, a million girls would kill for the job. After all, everyone wants to be us.

Don't they?


End file.
